


weary bones and anxious heart

by katsumi



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Established Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 00:01:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9630695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katsumi/pseuds/katsumi
Summary: Jyn is definitely not sick, and Cassian is definitely not nervous about it, and they are both handling the situation with the utmost maturity.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yellowbound](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellowbound/gifts).



> Written for the 2017 Fandom Trumps Hate auction! Gretamaya asked for established relationship that's not too angsty, on which I hope I was able to deliver.
> 
> This also exists in pretty much the same universe as semantics.

He first notices in one night in bed, when Jyn’s cold and clammy nose brushes up against his clavicle. He frowns, wrinkles his brow, but gathers her in his arms like always and lets sleep pull him under.

 

When the alarm goes off the next morning, she burrows deeper beneath the blanket, and that’s when Cassian knows something’s up. Half the time, she’s on her feet and out the door before he even stirs.

 

“Feeling okay?” he asks, in a tone he hopes comes across as casual and unassuming.

 

The ball of blankets that is Jyn growls in response.

 

He always sleeps against the wall—remnants of a time when Jyn used to slip out of bed before the sun rose, when they both refused to admit what was happening between them—and since she won’t move, he has to crawl over her to get up. When he gets out of the bathroom, she’s still huddled there.

 

He doesn’t think much of it; he’s long stopped trying to rationalize her every move. He grabs her coat from the closet and lays it next to her on the bed before heading out.

 

But when he gets to the canteen, he sees Bodhi wearing two coats, three scarves, and gloves the size of a wookie’s foot and thinks: _shit_.

 

“Doing okay, Bodhi?” he asks, setting down his tray. Bodhi looks up at him, eyes red and nose redder.

 

“Fibe.”

 

Cassian blinks. “What?”

 

“Ib fibe,” Bodhi says, and then coughs so violently he jumps two full inches off his chair.

 

“He says he’s fine,” Chirrut explains, swooping in suddenly and mysteriously as is his infuriating tendency. “Although common sense would suggest that he is not.”

 

“Ids no big deal,” Bodhi frowns, burrowing a little further beneath his two hoods. “Ib drinking water.”

 

Cassian pushes his cup across the table. “Drink more.”

 

“It’s just a cold,” Chirrut says, smiling as he slides into the seat beside Bodhi. “It seems to be going around the base. Baze has it.”

 

Cassian blinks at him. Baze has never struck him as the type of man capable of falling prey to something as small as bacteria. Even Bodhi looks surprised.

 

“He’s okay though, right?” Bodhi asks.

 

“Oh yes,” Chirrut says, waving a hand. “He hibernates. You won’t see him for a few days, and he’ll never admit he was actually sick. He’ll be fine.”

 

With remarkable timing, Jyn emerges—coat on, scowl firmly in place—and plops her tray down next to Cassian’s. She’s pale, ears red, and the only thing on her plate is a single piece of toast.

 

“Ah,” says Chirrut, knowingly, even though he can’t possibly know because he _cannot see_. “You’re sick, too.”

 

Jyn snaps her head up. “I am not.”

 

Cassian sighs. “It’s going around. Bodhi has it.”

 

Jyn turns to Bodhi. “You’re sick?”

 

“Ib fibe.”

 

“You’re not fine,” Jyn immediately retorts, leaning forward to get a better look at him. “You’re all sweaty.”

 

This strikes Cassian as utterly hypocritical, given that he slept all the previous night with her sticky hands pressed against his stomach. But before he can say as much, Jyn is reaching across the table to push her palm to Bodhi’s forehead. She’s a little too short and has to push herself onto her knee on her chair to do it; Cassian almost reaches forward to help lift her across, before he realizes that would be ridiculous.

 

“Hmm,” Jyn frowns. “You don’t feel warm.”

 

“Well, not to you,” Cassian mutters. But the comment gets drowned out by a particularly vicious cough from Bodhi.

 

Jyn draws back, decisive. “You’re sick, Bodhi. Go to bed.”

 

“But—”

 

“No buts. You shouldn’t work if you’re sick.” And then, to make sure her point really lands: “You’ll get other people sick.”

 

Bodhi’s eyes widen. “I habend thoughda dad.”

 

“He hadn’t thought of that,” Chirrut translates.

 

“She’s right, Bodhi,” says Cassian, leaning forward; beneath the table, he reaches over to lay his hand against Jyn’s thigh. “If you’re sick, you should rest. That’s the smart thing to do.”

 

He can feel Jyn tense beneath his fingertips, but she says nothing.

 

Bodhi nods, solemn. Then he erupts into a full-body sneeze that knocks over his glass and sends water cascading across the table.

 

Chirrut smiles, patting Bodhi on the back. “He agrees!”

 

* * *

 

Jyn heads back to their room after breakfast, and even though Cassian is expected at a debrief, he follows her. He doesn’t say a word as he walks two steps behind her down the hall, and neither does she, but the line of tension in her shoulders suggests what kind of response he’ll get as soon as they’re behind closed doors.

 

Predictably, the first thing Jyn does is whirl around and glare at him.

 

“Don’t,” she growls.

 

“I didn’t say anything.”

 

“You were about to.”

 

“Jyn—”

 

“See?” she says, turning for the closet in unmasked exasperation. “Right there. I told you not to do that.”

 

“I was going to ask what’s on your schedule today,” he says, in his best attempt at placating calmness. (It’s a tone he’s perfected through years of working as a spy, but somehow, Jyn has always managed to see right through it.)

 

“Mission prep,” she says, and he notes she shoves her warmest pair of gloves into her bag. Mission prep in this instance means loading cargo onto the U-Wing, and that means hours spent on the very poorly insulated air hangar.

 

“Okay.” He steps closer, until his chest is flush with her back. “Have you considered, perhaps, not doing that?”

 

She moves to elbow him, but he was already anticipating that—it’s her go-to move, and when she hits rib it’s lethal. He catches her arm before she can make contact, curls his hand around her bicep.

 

She makes a strange, rumbling noise—half growl, half cough—but doesn’t move to bat him away.

 

“Bodhi’s sick,” she says. “If I don’t get to work, we won’t be ready in time.”

 

“Bodhi’s sick,” he agrees, sliding his other hand around her waist. “Which means you’ll be spending twice as long on the hangar.”

 

“So?” she asks, continuing to pack. He smiles, knowing she can’t see, and dips his neck until his forehead rests against the back of her head.

 

“You know what else might throw that mission off schedule?” he asks, low. “If you get sick.”

 

“I’m not sick.”

 

“You have a cold.”

 

“I don’t _have_ a cold,” she huffs. “I _am_ cold. This planet is made of ice. It’s cold.”

 

“Ah.”

 

“You just don’t notice,” she says, twisting around to face him, “because you grew up with this.”

 

This is a fruitless point—he lived on Yavin with its boiling summers far longer than on Fest—but he knows better to get lost in pointless arguments. Instead, he runs his eyes over the too-white pallor of her skin. She’s not at full speed, clearly, but he does have to admit: she’s in better shape than Bodhi by bounds.

 

He won’t press. He knows not to press. Even if there’s a strange, aching heat in his gut he can’t quite name.

 

He sighs. “Don’t work too hard today.”

 

Something quick and defiant flashes across her face. “I said I’m not sick.”

 

“Well, don’t _get_ sick.”

 

“Well, fine.”

 

“Fine.”

 

“Fine.”

 

When he leans in to kiss her, she jerks her head to the side and his lips graze her cheek. He would laugh if he weren’t so frustrated, and if he didn’t know it would make her even more defensive.

 

“Jyn,” he murmurs against her skin, and he can feel her chest hitch against his.

 

“I’m not going to kiss you,” she mumbles, before he can say another word.

 

He smiles. “Because you don’t want to get me sick?”

 

“Because I don’t like you very much.”

 

Her fingers—curled to fists in the fabric of his shirt, holding him close—suggest otherwise.

 

* * *

 

It’s not that Cassian is worried. That would be unreasonable. Jyn is an adult, and whatever’s going around is just a cold, and Cassian is a military officer capable of—even applauded for—rational thinking in times of crisis.

 

Not that this is a crisis.

 

It’s just that he’s never experienced this before. K2 doesn’t get sick, as he frequently mentions when he recites his list of reasons why droids are more efficient than humans. He’s slapped on many a bacta patch, but this is new territory. He’d probably be better at handling this if she were maimed.

 

Jyn, he has come to learn, is all hard edges guarding gentle heart; to pull her closer is to push her away. She is a difficult person to take care of, and comforting others is not a skill his army training ever required of him.

 

So when he brings a mug of tea to her in the air hangar, a part of him knows he’s digging himself into a hole. It’s just, he has to do _something_.

 

Jyn is standing outside the ship, clipboard in hand as she counts boxes, the hood of her coat pulled so tight that only a small circle of her face is visible. She frowns when she sees him.

 

“Why are you here?” she gripes.

 

“Hello to you, too. I brought you tea.”

 

She stares at him.

 

He stares back.

 

“Not because you’re sick,” he adds, a little too late.

 

She crosses her arms. “Did you bring Bodhi tea?”

 

“Err—no.”

 

“Bodhi could use tea.”

 

He’s tempted to point out that _Bodhi’s not the person he’s sleeping with_ , but bites back that impulse. “You’re right. I’ll bring him some later.”

 

Without warning, Luke Skywalker emerges from the inside of the U-Wing, cheeks pink from cold. He nods at Cassian before walking over to the pile of boxes and picking up another to load onto the ship.

 

Cassian glances at Jyn. She lifts her chin.

 

“Luke offered to help,” she says.

 

Cassian knows it’s far more likely that Jyn glared and Luke—the war hero who outranks even Cassian—immediately folded, but he won’t say as much, to preserve Luke’s dignity.

 

“Luke,” Jyn calls, “do you like tea?”

 

Luke hitches a box on his knee, spins to face them. “I do like tea!”

 

“Great. Cassian brought you tea.”

 

Luke cocks his head. “That’s weird, but okay.”

 

“I didn’t—” He huffs. “Jyn, would you just drink it?”

 

“I don’t want it.”

 

“I don’t care.”

 

“I don’t care that you don’t care.”

 

Cassian closes his eyes. He is _not_ going to start a screaming match with her in public. (Not again.)

 

“Fine,” he sighs. “Luke, here’s some tea.”

 

“Thanks!” says Luke, smile bright. “My hands are full right now, but I’ll grab it in a minute.”

 

“Okay.” Cassian looks back to Jyn, furrows his brow. “See you later?”

 

She shrugs, which is rich, given that they live together. “Yeah, okay.”

 

He waits until Luke re-emerges from the ship empty handed and passes him the mug.

 

“Hey,” he mutters, low so Jyn doesn’t hear. “Make sure she doesn’t push herself too hard today, okay?”

 

“I have actual things to do today,” Luke whines. Cassian ignores this.

 

“Thanks.” He claps Luke on the shoulder before he turns to leave.

 

* * *

 

Hours later, Jyn tracks him in one of the base’s many hallways. Hope flutters in his chest for just a moment—maybe she’s agreed to rest—but then he sees the sour look on her face, the way her arms are crossed tight across her chest.

 

“Baze said I need to talk to you,” she says.

 

This stops him. Baze has been conspicuously absent from all the day's’ meetings.

 

“Baze?” he asks. “I thought he was sick.”

 

Jyn keeps her face remarkably neutral, save for one quick twitch of her lip.

 

“He is not sick,” she says, slow.

 

It takes guts to lie that blatantly, he’ll give her that.

 

“Jyn—”

 

“So, our mission got pushed up,” she continues, all in one breath. “By three days.”

 

He bites his lip. “That’s today.”

 

“Yes.” Her eyes narrow, like she’s ready for the fight she knows he’s about to start.

 

He’s not one to disappoint.

 

“Jyn,” he manages, voice tight. “You can’t go off-planet right now.”

 

“Who says?”

 

“Well, a med droid might, for one.”

 

“I don’t have a fever,” she points out, stepping closer, “I’m not sneezing, I haven’t lost my voice. I’m just _cold_ , that’s _nothing_.”

 

“That’s how it starts!” he argues, and even though he’s a good deal taller than Jyn, he stretches his neck just a tad higher, glaring down at her. “You might not be sick yet, but you’re going to be, and you shouldn’t leave right now.”

 

She throws up her arms. “I _knew_ I shouldn’t have told you.”

 

On impulse, he steps forward, catching her forearm. “You weren’t even going to tell me?”

 

“I would have left a note.”

 

“A note,” he repeats, flat. He swallows; heat floods his veins. “Jyn. You can’t do that.”

 

Her eyes darken. “Can’t do what? My job?”

 

“You’re not fit for your job like this.” The words come out louder than he wants them to, but he can’t help it; something close to panic bites at his skin. “Can you honestly tell me you’re at your best right now?”

 

For a moment she snarls at him in furious disbelief. And then her expression stiffens, slides into something painfully neutral.

 

“Are you going to order me to stay?” she asks.

 

He blinks. “What?”

 

“You could.” The words are clipped, curt. “You outrank me. Is this an order?”`

 

He lets go of her arm, takes a step back.

 

“No,” he breathes. “No, of course not.” He has been a soldier as long as he can remember, an officer nearly half his life. But that’s not who he wants to be with her.

 

Her eyes snap down and she takes one sharp, shaky breath.

 

“Okay. See you when I get back.”

 

“Okay.”

 

She turns to leave, then stops.

 

Head still tucked down, she pivots back and grips his forearm. He clasps his hand over hers immediately.

 

She squeezes once and then lets go, and he manages to keep himself from latching onto her fingers as she pulls away.

 

* * *

 

Cassian is exhausted and antsy by the time he makes it back to his room that evening. He’s not looking forward to a night spent alone in their bed, the memory of Jyn’s affronted glare burned against the backs of his eyelids.

 

But then he opens the door, and there she is.

 

She’s curled on her side of the bed, buried beneath three blankets, frowning even in sleep. His whole body floods with warmth at the mere sight of her.

 

He lays his things down quietly and then crouches by the bed. He’s reaching out to brush a strand of sweat-licked air from her forehead when her eyes open, warm and brown and heavy with exhaustion.

 

“Hey,” he whispers, trailing his fingers along her forehead.

 

She manages a soft twitch of a smile. “Hey.”

 

“You’re here,” he notes.

 

Her nose wrinkles. “Bodhi was too sick to go.”

 

“I thought there was a replacement.”

 

“Fine,” she mutters. “They told me I couldn’t fly.”

 

He pulls the top blanket a little tighter around her. “Yeah? And why is that?”

 

She at least has the decency to look sheepish.

 

“Well,” she starts, “I fainted a little bit.”

 

Cassian groans.

 

“I said a little bit!” Jyn insists, as Cassian sits back, stretching his legs out across the floor. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

 

There are a number of things Cassian would like to say, but since so many of them include profanities, he settles for a pinched: “Are you okay?”

 

“Yeah. I fell into some boxes; they broke my fall. Is Luke really strong with the force? Because his reflexes aren’t what you’d think they’d be.”

 

Cassian rests his palm against her hot, clammy cheek, and she nudges back against it, closes her eyes.

 

“You’re sick,” he says.

 

“I guess so,” she mumbles, miserably.

 

“It happens,” he soothes, stroking a line across her cheekbone. “People get sick.”

 

“I don’t.” Her voice is hushed, cracked, and he knows by now to wait, that there’s more lurking behind those words.

 

“I couldn’t get sick,” she continues, after a long pause. “I just...couldn’t.”

 

“Saw?” he asks. She hasn’t told him much about those years she spent with him, training to fire a weapon with deadly accuracy when she should have been in school. But what she has said, whispered against his neck as they lay in bed at night, has made him ache for that little girl, abandoned for a world that would bruise and batter her.

 

“Yeah,” she mumbles.

 

That’s all she says, and he doesn’t press for more.

 

He moves his hand to her forehead, feels the skin there boil against his palm.

 

“You checked with medical?” he asks, sliding his hand back down to his cheek.

 

“Yeah. The fever’s not bad, I just need to wait it out.”

 

“Can I get you anything? A, uh...cold towel?”

 

She cracks an eye open. “A what?”

 

“I don’t know,” he admits, worrying his lip. “I’m not sure what to do.”

 

Her forehead crinkles. “You don’t have to do anything. I’m not that sick.”

 

“I know. I know that, but—” He burrows his free hand beneath the blanket until he finds hers. He’s not sure how to explain the tightness in his chest, the intensity with which he yearns to ease that weary look on her face. She might not need his help, but he needs to offer it. He needs her to accept it.

 

He needs to know he can be for her what he promised he would be all those many months ago, when they stood on the tarmac ready to hand over their lives to this fight. A refuge, a comfort. A home.

 

She squeezes his hand.

 

“Thanks,” she whispers, eyes soft.

 

And that’s enough.

 

He exhales, runs his thumb along the back of her hand. He wants to many things she will never ask for, things he doesn’t even know how to give her. But she is here, and safe, and with him, and that’s enough.

 

True to form, Jyn kills the mood rather quickly. “You shouldn’t sleep here.”

 

He narrows his eyes. “I live here.”

 

“Yes,” she says, flat. “I’m aware. But I’m probably contagious.”

 

“Where do you expect me to sleep?” he asks, leaning his head on his elbow so that is face mirrors hers. “Everyone we know is sick.”

 

“Where does K2 sleep?”

 

“K doesn’t sleep. Droid.”

 

“Damn him. Well—”

 

“Jyn,” he interrupts, gentle but firm. “I’m not leaving.”

 

It’s hard to tell—Jyn is an expert at stoic nonchalance—but he thinks he sees the hint of a smile.

 

“You’re going to have to sleep on the floor, you know,” she points out. “You can’t share with a sick person.”

 

“I’m comfortable here.”

 

She rolls her eyes. “You can’t sleep like this. I’d spend the whole night breathing on your face. That’s not the point.”

 

“Fine. Toss me a pillow?”

 

“Get it yourself,” she grouses. “I’m sick.”

 

“Sure, _now_ you use that.”

 

But he complies, pushing to his feet and leaning over her to grab the extra pillow. He’s settling in on the floor when he sees her hand hang over the edge of the bed, her fingers wiggling limply.

 

Unsure of what else to do, he reaches up and threads his fingers through hers. She grips back, tight.

 

“Don’t get sick,” she mumbles.

 

He smiles up at the ceiling. “I’ll try not to.”

 

“I don’t want to have to bring you tea.”

 

“I won’t ask you to.”

 

“I don’t even know how to make tea.”

 

“Jyn. Do you want me to find somewhere else to sleep?”

 

“No,” she says, a little too fast. “I, err...no. This is fine.”

 

“Good,” he responds, level and calm even as his heart thrums alive in his chest. “Because I’m not leaving.”

 

“You’re stubborn,” she grumbles, squeezing his fingers.

 

He laughs, squeezing back.

 

“You’re one to talk.”

**Author's Note:**

> [leralynne](http://leralynne.tumblr.com) on tumblr; come say hi!


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